


Suburbs

by whereismygarden



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-21 19:58:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereismygarden/pseuds/whereismygarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Storybrooke, Maine, is just a little town, ready to go up at the slightest spark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Kids Are Growing Up So Fast

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not going to have any explicit sex scenes, as far as I can tell, but it will have violence and gore. So take heed, please. 
> 
> Written to Arcade Fire, whence come the chapter titles.

                The hot days of late August made even Calum Gold reluctant to don his customary suit, when he woke to humidity and the weak stirring of the ceiling fan did nothing more than move the heavy air around. His son was still asleep, and he rapped on Bae’s door with his cane as he walked down the hallway.

                “Dad!” His complaint was muffled by the closed door, but by the time Gold was downstairs, taking a jar of jam from the refrigerator, his son had come downstairs and was glowering from under his messy brown hair. “I’m awake,” he said ungraciously. Gold smiled.

                “Good,” he replied, and turned to the toaster, which had finished browning his customary rye bread. “There’s no need for you to be lying about in bed all day.” Bae huffed and took a jug of orange juice from the refrigerator door, knowing better than to protest that he had nothing to do. Having nothing to do would result in having a whole list of things to throughout the day.

                He wasn’t a harsh father: strict, but sensible. Bae was as happy as any moody teenager could be, he did well in school, and he had plenty of friends. Gold knew much of that came from his son’s own personality and not his raising, but he had seen the results of being overbearing or lax in some of the other children in town. There was little to take pride in in his life: his son was one place his pride would never be misplaced.

                “There’s a moving van next door,” he reported, wandering in from the front of the house, still with his juice in hand. Gold frowned, trying to recall if he knew anything about this development. His next-door neighbor was a widow with two young daughters. Mrs. Carpenter, who took a lot of pride in her flower garden and sometimes offered Bae a few dollars to climb a ladder and trim her ornamental trees, as she was afraid of heights. There had been no ‘for sale’ sign on the lawn. Bae snapped his fingers, realization dawning on his face.

                “Do you know why?” Gold asked.

                “Mrs. Carpenter got married again. I guess the new part of her family is moving in.” Bae was excited about the prospect of new neighbors, though Gold himself could barely summon a disinterested nod. Mrs. Carpenter had little to talk about beyond her flowers, and he thought her new husband would be about as interesting.

                It was a Saturday, the last before Bae returned to school: well, started school. His son was a freshman this year, meaning he would hop on a bus earlier in the morning, the source of Gold’s annoying taps on his door all summer. There would be less for him to adjust to, that way.

                The shop closed earlier on Saturdays, but people were more likely to stop by in the mornings, and he greeted a few folks who simply wanted to look at the collection of wonders on his shelves. Not all were rare, but none were common, and many were unique. There was jewelry, children’s toys from another age, pieces of delicate pottery and sets of antique silverware. Rolls of paintings rested on the shelves behind the counter, bookends and glass lamps on tables in the corner, and wind chimes, banners, and hanging lights swung from the ceiling. Instruments, both musical and scientific (the latter outdated now) rested in velvet-lined cases, and boxes of china and crystal were stacked neatly on the right wall.

                His shop was his place of safety and rest, where he could draw up rental agreements and loan contracts in the cool, dim atmosphere he preferred. People sometimes complained that it was unwelcoming or gloomy, but long years of being Storybrooke’s unloved shark made it all roll off his shoulders.

                The moving van stood empty when he made his way home at four, and the few movers were standing on the curb smoking cigarettes and sipping water. A new car was parked in Mrs. Carpenter’s driveway: a battered green station wagon. The two little girls were bobbing at the door like eager puppies, the younger one clapping her hands in glee. Gold paused to watch the door open and a young woman with long brown hair step out, not getting a second to catch her breath before the two pounced on her.

                Apparently their stepfather came with a new sister. Gold turned up the walk to his front door, sighing in relief at the cooler air of the house. Less pleasant was the sound of music emanating from the upstairs.

                “Baden, if I can hear it down here, it’s too loud!” he shouted, and smiled when the noise stopped. Likely it was still too loud up there, but the lower half of the house was quiet now. Bae had taken his backpack and removed his summer supplies: tangles of dirty string, water bottles, a camping knife, and a compass, and replaced them with notebooks. It sat on a chair in the kitchen, looking as deflated as his son no doubt felt.

                Dinner would be simple: he couldn’t bear the idea of turning the oven on in the late summer heat, so he made a salad, boiled a pot of noodles, and reheated a container of sauce in the refrigerator. Bae wandered down before he called, drawn by the scent of beef and tomatoes, and Gold smiled.

                “You can set the table, son. And clear away your dirty hiking things.” Bae did as he was asked, moving his equipment into the laundry room and garage.

                Halfway through dinner, someone rapped on the door. Gold rose, frowning, and headed to answer it, swallowing his mouthful of salad first. Mrs. Carpenter, a tall, wide man, her two daughters, and the young woman he’d seen earlier all crowded on the doorstep.

                “Good evening,” he said. Mrs. Carpenter smiled, taking the man’s hand in hers.

                “We’re just going around letting everyone know we’ve two extra people in the house now!” she said, practically gushing. The man held his hand out, and Gold shook it briefly.

                “Moe French,” he said gruffly. “Just married Angela a few days ago. This is my daughter, Isabelle.” The brunette smiled and held out her hand hesitantly, flower-blue eyes meeting his.

                “It’s Belle,” she said, in a soft, low voice. Her hand was soft, with a few calluses at her fingers, but strong. “Nice to meet you.”

                “Calum Gold,” he said, straightening and leaning on his cane. Mrs. Carpenter—Mrs. _French_ now—simply stood there, face growing uncertain. “Good evening,” he hinted, and put his hand on the doorknob. They all backed up a little, the two little ones taking their new sister’s hands and pulling her down the steps.

                Gold closed the door, wondering if he had seen them before. He was sure he would at least have remembered Belle, with her pretty eyes and sweet voice. Maybe she was visiting her new family before she returned to college somewhere else. At any rate, he had more important things to worry about. Tomorrow afternoon he would have to meet Bae’s teachers at the high school and worry about his son’s first day.

                He dressed Monday morning as usual but stayed at the house, sipping his coffee, watching to make sure the bus came at the proper time to pick up Bae, who stood glumly at the end of the driveway, headphones on, backpack at his feet. It was only six-forty: he had a good five minutes before the bus came, but Gold had pushed him out the door early, worried about missing it.

                He and Bae reacted at the same time to another figure joining his son’s at the bus stop: Bae slid off his headphones, and Gold choked a little on his coffee as he realized the newcomer was their new neighbor. She was wearing a skirt and light jacket, and Gold thought she was saying something to Bae as she took a place next to him. He’d assumed she was a college student: the idea that his attractive young neighbor was only in high school was—shit. He berated himself for thinking of her as attractive when she had only a few years on Bae, and moved away from his watchpost at the window. He would hear the school bus and its loud airbrakes, and know Bae had been picked up.

                That afternoon he returned from the pawnshop to find Bae and his friend Morgan sniggering over something in the living room. The girl jerked when he opened the door, practically hiding behind her thick blonde hair, but Bae only waved.

                “Morgan’s here, Dad,” he announced. Gold sniffed.

                “I can see that,” he said. “Did you do your homework?” His son rolled his eyes dramatically.

                “It’s the first day, Dad.”

                Apparently high school wasn’t going to be much different from middle school: Morgan hung around, usually with no notice from her mother, and sometimes he permitted Bae to spend the afternoon at her house. The math homework took longer most nights, but Bae brought home high grades on his quizzes and seemed to enjoy his other classes, which was all Gold could ask for.

                Mid-September, he answered another knock on the door to find himself face-to-face with his pretty young neighbor, who was holding a white envelope in her hand.

                “This ended up in our mailbox,” she said, and he took it wordlessly, unable to stop noticing her delightful mouth and straight nose, straight out of a painting by Rossetti, then cursing himself for doing so.

                “Thank you,” he said. “Ah, Belle.” She smiled at his use of her name.

                “You remembered! Mostly people just say Isabelle.”

                “You said Belle,” he returned. She nodded, still smiling, and turned to go.

                “Well, thank you,” she said, voice sincere, and he watched her walk across his lawn, stepping over the garden that her stepmother had at the edge of the yard, and disappearing from view.

                “Who was that?” Bae asked, coming up behind him and bringing him to himself.

                “Our neighbor, Belle,” he said, and held up the envelope. “Mail mix-up.”

                “That’s never happened before,” Bae said curiously, then wandered off again, calling that he was riding his bike over to Morgan’s house.

                Gold found himself relishing every time Belle French came to his door with the mail: sometimes she stayed to talk about something or other. She was clever, sharp-tongued, and enthusiastic about literature, art, and science. His initial appreciation of her lovely face and frame was quickly subsumed in admiration of her mind and humor.

                Her father, a florist, had met her new stepmother when he had stopped to admire her flowers, and married a few months later.

                “It’s a bit different, living with the two little ones,” she admitted. “It’s nice to come by here and be quiet sometimes.”

                “Come whenever you like,” he invited. “Or you can stop by the shop with your books.” She brightened at that, and sometimes did come over without the mail. He thought that they must have been training a new carrier, because the visits with envelopes came less and less, while Belle’s presence didn’t decrease. Usually they just stood on the porch, she seemingly reluctant to come inside. She liked the shop better, stopping by sometimes after school to sit in a chair near the back, schoolbooks spread across her knees and hair tied back with an elastic while she concentrated.

                He liked her company, and after a few meetings, his preoccupation with her eyes stopped and he only wanted to talk to her, forever. He had almost no friends: his life was his son and his business. Sometimes George Regan stopped by for a drink and a hand of cards, or Melissa Varanidae, for a drink and a game of chess, but they were friendly acquaintances and business partners, not real friends. If his only choice was a bookish high schooler who came to talk to him three times a week, that was perfectly fine with him.

                He didn’t even consider that he might have overstepped a few bounds until the morning Moe French came into his shop, glaring at him.

                “Good morning,” he said. French left even earlier than he did in the morning, to prepare his stock for the day, and Gold rarely saw the man.

                “Gold, you’re a good neighbor, and you’ve got a good kid,” French began. Gold came out from behind the counter to listen to the rest of the speech, which was delivered half-angrily. French’s voice even shook a little. “But I wish you’d stop hanging around my daughter so much. I’m not accusing you of anything, but it comes across as a little creepy.”

                “Excuse me?” he said sharply. He wasn’t—Belle was a pretty girl, but he would never think—their relationship was purely platonic, and his admiration for her beauty was an aesthetic thing, never a carnal one. French held his hands up, as if in surrender.

                “You can’t blame me for speaking up. Imagine if it was your son,” he continued. Gold clenched his hand around his cane and sighed. If Bae had starting spending time with anyone not his own age, he would likely have gone round far earlier and issued a few threats regarding his son’s safety. But he would have had a talk about it with Bae first, asking why he had such an unusual friendship.

                “Belle comes to talk to _me_ , not the other way around,” he said. “I like talking to her. She’s a smart girl. Why don’t you talk to her about it if you’re so worried?” French folded his arms and narrowed his eyes.

                “All right then, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But if you lay a _finger_ on my daughter…” he trailed off warningly. Gold nodded curtly. Never mind that he knew Belle was seventeen and could consent to anything she wished without her father’s permission, she was still seventeen, and he was nearly forty. Not the makings of anything other than a meeting of minds.

                He walked home irritated anyway, and the near-accusation gnawed at him for the next few days. It made him snappish with Bae, and he found himself a little colder than usual with Belle. She simply sat and muttered at her calculus homework, and didn’t seem to notice. He wondered how she would feel if she knew he liked having her around simply because her presence made him feel light, not just because he valued their talks. If she knew that he admired her eyes because he thought they were pretty, not just because her wit shown through them. A little disgusted and unnerved, no doubt.

                All worries about Belle were driven out of his head the day he came home and found Bae on the phone, listening to something with wide eyes.

                “What’s happening?” he said, not liking his son’s horrified expression. Bae waved a hand and kept his ear pressed to the phone. He hung up after a few minutes, with a quick “Gotta go!” and looked up at his father, brown eyes wide and scared.

                “Dad, I think something terrible and scary is about to happen,” he said. Gold frowned, sitting down next to Bae on the couch.

                “What do you mean, son?” Bae bit his lip.

                “Do you believe in magic? Like, evil magic?”

~

                Belle didn’t want to go around knocking on the doors of all their new neighbors, especially at dinner hour, but she didn’t really have a say in the matter. Everyone seemed glad about the news, offering congratulations and smiles, but Belle only stood stiffly and tried to keep Rose and Mara quiet. The last house they went to was the one to the right of theirs, a pink-painted wood mansion with a lot of shade trees. Rose and Mara quieted at this door, as if intimidated, and a man with a cane opened the door after a long pause.

                He had kind dark eyes and shook her hand, but she remembered him because he didn’t think to offer congratulations, only shook hands and introduced himself, then retreated.

                “He has a son a few years younger than you, Belle,” Angela said, as Mara and Rose hauled on her arms and practically yanked her down to the street. “Named Baden.”

                She met Baden—who preferred Bae—when she came down to wait for the school bus Monday morning. He was a sweet kid, a freshman, and a few questions let her know that he’d lived in the neighborhood for nine years. He didn’t have a mother, he said, seeming a little sad, but he assured her that his dad was wonderful.

                “He’s really strict and grumpy, though,” he said belatedly, scuffing his toe at the curb. Belle smiled: he was young enough to unabashedly appreciate his father, but old enough to think it was uncool.

                “Well, you could end up with a mother someday. I have Angela, now.” Angela was a nice woman, if silly sometimes, and a good match for her father. Baden only shrugged and pulled his earphones back on, looking a little guilty, afraid of being rude, but she didn’t mind. Maybe she had upset him by mentioning his mother.

                School was as it always was: yelling people who hadn’t seen each other in a few weeks, everyone’s eyes droopy from the early wakeup, and uncomfortable desks. Her first period was with some of her friends, though, and she tugged Mu Han’s hair when she took the desk behind her, waving at Greg—and why on earth had he signed up for AP Literature when he didn’t even like to read? Mu Han turned and smiled at her, skin dark with a summer tan and eyes bright.

                “How was the move?” she asked, and Belle shrugged.

                “The bigger house is certainly nice. The neighborhood is very pretty.” The other girl didn’t pry, only fished a necklace out from her shirt and brandished it. It was a fine silver-colored chain, with a red dagger charm hanging from a small ring.

                “Isn’t this pretty? Dawn got it for me when we were at the beach.” Belle made an admiring noise, then straightened when their teacher walked in and closed the door with a loud click.

                Lunch was a more boisterous affair: she found herself between James Regan and Ruby Lucas, being jostled by the exuberant body language of both. James and his latest girlfriend, (though she had been around since early May and seemed quite serious) Jackie, expressed their affection through wrestling, apparently. Ruby was simply telling the story of her vacation to Yellowstone to see her mother, and was gesturing wildly about the pack of wolves, moose, and grizzly bears she had seen. James’s much calmer twin brother, David, gave Belle a sympathetic look across the table, while Mu Han only grinned.

                Belle ended up alone on the bus: David, James, Greg, Peter, Lance, and Billy, her male friends, were all off to either football or cross country practice. Mary Margaret (David’s girlfriend) and Ruby had volleyball, Mu Han had cross country, and Kathy had off-season training for basketball. Belle didn’t do sports: she liked to exercise, but not the way her friends did. She could dance until she fell over, but not in front of people.

                The first two weeks of school passed in a similar manner. She had to think about college applications, about papers: her friends were away on the weekends at games or meets or scrimmages. She wasn’t especially close to Kathy, who mostly kept herself to herself, and everyone else was busy. So she studied her new neighbors.

                Bae was a typical fourteen year old boy, and seemed pretty inseparable from his wild-haired friend Morgan. Sometimes they ended up in her backyard, always dodging Angela’s precious flowerbeds, and climbing the trees. Angela said nothing about it, so she assumed it was customary, and ceased worrying about it.

                Mr. Gold was a little inscrutable: he was in his late thirties, she guessed, with long hair that nearly reached his shoulders in places. He walked with a bad limp, left early in the mornings, and returned in the evenings. She had never seen him smile.

                So, curiosity overcoming sense, she took an envelope out of the Golds’ mailbox and walked to the front door. He simply stared at her and said thank you, but he remembered her name. That pleased her, for some reason. She started stealing more of his mail, and striking up conversations.

                “Coupon book for the grocery store,” she said, handing it to him with the best smile she could muster. “Don’t want to miss out on the chicken wing sale.”

                “Indeed,” he snorted, flicking his eyes over the flier under discussion. “Flowers on sale, too: sure your family couldn’t use a few potted zinnia?” She couldn’t stop from giggling at the absurdity of his question, and he smiled faintly at her. It didn’t quite reach every bit of his face, but it was a beautiful smile nonetheless. It wasn’t until she was back in her bedroom, relishing the memory, that she realized she might have a slight problem. Making middle-aged single fathers smile at them wasn’t typical behavior for teenagers.

                Then she realized how ridiculous her thoughts were: she was being silly, fixing on her nice neighbor because she didn’t prefer anyone at school. Mr. Gold would doubtless not appreciate her little crush: he liked to talk to her, exercise his wit, nothing more.

                It was a good situation all around: she had a friend she could spend time with when her friends were busy with sports, and going down to his shop was a relief when she needed to get away from Mara’s constant art projects and her habit of glittering everything and everyone she touched, or Rose’s revolving collection of crickets. Mara made her the little stick cages, and she kept them hung up in her room for a few nights before tossing them back into the street: they were both sweet, daring little girls, but sometimes Belle tired of looking at pictures of flowers or being called from her room to marvel at a frog Rose had caught.

                Gold’s shop, however, was like a treasure cave, and she told him as much. Sometimes she had trouble doing her homework there: though when she brought her books, he didn’t attempt to make conversation, between the shop’s contents and its owner’s presence, she couldn’t focus.

                Angela hardly noticed that she sometimes spent twenty or thirty minutes a day on the neighbors’ porch, chatting with Gold, but eventually her father caught on. Finally, coming home one day with a serious look on his face, he told her they needed to talk and sat her down at the kitchen table. Angela banished Rose and Mara and took a seat next to her father, face a little pinched but neutral.

                “Belle, I’ve noticed you spend a lot of time talking to Mr. Gold,” her father said, hands restless in his lap. She only nodded, feigning that she couldn’t see where he intended to take this conversation. “It’s a little odd, my girl.”

                “What, having friends who don’t go to school with me?” she asked, voice sharp with her irritation. Her avoidance of the real issue—that he wouldn’t address—finally prompted him to address it head-on.

                “No, I mean spending half your afternoons alone in a shop with a man twice your age!” he snapped. Belle scowled, feeling her face heat up at the fact that they were having this conversation.

                “Oh my God, please, it’s not—Jesus Christ, we’re not—I’m not _sleeping_ with him! We just talk about things!” Which was all true: she had omitted her little crush, but she was expecting that to dissolve any day now, so she didn’t need to worry. Her father snorted.

                “I’m not saying you are: I think at least a little better of him than that, but be careful. Other people will notice.” Belle huffed, too vexed to think about that.

                So what if she liked to study his warm brown eyes, which went cold and sharp whenever someone came in to negotiate a loan, or soft when he looked at Bae? So what if her heart thumped when he smiled at her—he was freer with his smiles, lately—or touched her hand? Her feelings were the same kind of feelings she’d had for Lance sophomore year: they’d melt away soon enough, and she would have a friend whom she could talk to with fewer blushes.

                To her intense relief, her father dropped the subject, though she thought Angela kept a sharper eye on her, and asked her more often if there were ‘any cute boys at your school?’ She kept going to Gold’s shop two or three times a week, to hear about the antiques in his collection, or a story about someone in town.

                One Tuesday Mu Han found her adjusting her hair in the girls’ room after school. Her friend narrowed her eyes and studied her while she tied her shoes, glancing at her watch. Coach Harper was merciless when it came to being late for practice.

                “All right, what’s with the pretty?” she demanded. “This isn’t normal behavior for someone who’s going to get on a bus and ride home in the humidity.” Belle snorted, re-clipping her brown curls to the back of her head.

                “There’s a difference between ‘pretty’ and ‘neat,’” she said dryly. Mu Han laughed at that and quirked her mouth at her own disheveled appearance. Even her socks didn’t match.

                “Well, yes. But you’re trying to look pretty,” her interrogation was blissfully cut short when Mu Han looked at her watch again and hurried out, even her curiosity not stronger than her fear of her coach. Belle frowned at her reflection and wondered if she _was_ trying to look pretty. She always dressed neatly, but she didn’t make an effort to be alluring. She had been making her makeup maybe a little smokier than usual, but she highly doubted it actually made her as seductive as the little guide in one of Ruby’s magazines promised it would.

                At any rate, Mr. Gold only greeted her with his usual nod and continued to tinker with something on his desk. She settled down onto her usual chair and took out her calculus, trying to use the calming effect of his presence as a counterweight for her utter disdain for the work.

                Friday afternoon, her plan to go and hang around his shop was derailed by James, David, Mary Margaret, and Ruby, who were going downtown for shakes and wanted her to come along. The little path that cut through this part of the suburbs was macadam-paved but half-covered in leaves and grass, and the trees of people’s backyards shaded it, making it a little forest-like paradise. The leaves of most of the trees were only just starting to turn, so they walked through a green tunnel, occasionally looking through the cracks in privacy fences to see someone’s lawn or pool or garden. The weeds lining the path grew high against the fences on either side, in tangles of thorns and drying blossoms. Angela wouldn’t like the sight: she liked her flowers neat and trimmed and ordered.

                Belle was thinking that she liked the natural way the weeds and vines had grown together, artlessly, in a way that transcended human picking at the earth, when they rounded a corner of the path and her breath left her lungs. Mary Margaret _screamed_ , Ruby jumped, yelped, and covered her eyes, and the twins both jerked the exact same way and gave the same rough shout.

                Someone had killed and gutted a cat, stretching its skin back from its ribs and nailing the edges into the earth. The legs had been yanked at, the paws nailed to the ground so it was splayed out, its empty insides open to the sky. The organs had been put in a pile to the side, and on the back of the fence, written in what must be the cat’s blood, was the phrase, all capitals, WE TITHE TO HELL.

                Mary Margaret was gagging, turning away, and Belle could only stand, transfixed, stomach roiling as she stared at the obscene tableau. James swallowed and said only,

                “What the shitting _fuck_ is this?”


	2. These Streets That We Know So Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you thought I was never finishing this story.

                “No one panic,” David said. “Oh, hell.” Belle shut her eyes, raising a hand to cover her nose against the smell of death. There were a few busy black flies on the cat’s eyes and guts, she could hear them buzzing around.

                “I think I’m going to be sick,” Ruby said faintly, and Belle opened her eyes in time to see the tall, perpetually poised girl hurry off the path, a few meters down, and throw up. She closed her eyes again, resolving not to sympathy vomit.

                “I’m going to run and get the police,” David said, and took off at a dead run down the path, scattering leaves out from under his sneakers. Belle glanced at Mary Margaret, who was crying, and turned her so she was looking away from the gruesome sight. James stepped a little closer to it.

                “Don’t touch it, you’re going to screw up the evidence!” Belle snapped, drawing close to him despite her ardent wish to be as far away as possible. He held up his hands in surrender.

                “Chill out, French. I’m just checking to see if it’s anyone’s pet.” He pointed at the disfigured body. “No collar.”

                “Lots of people don’t collar their cats,” she whispered, feeling sick all over again. She didn’t want to notice, but it had been a pretty brown tabby.

                “Ugh, what kind of sick fuck would do this?” James glanced over at Mary Margaret, lowering his voice. “Hey, lots of little kids come along this path on their way back from school, so I am going to walk around that corner, and you go down that way, and bully them into going a different way if any come.”

                It was a solid plan, at least, and she nodded, and drew Mary Margaret along with her. The other girl was still crying, and Belle made her take a good number of stumbling steps away, and sit down facing away. Ruby was wiping her mouth, white-faced, and she glanced up at Belle.

                “Sorry, kind of lame,” she muttered, and kicked dead leaves over the sick in the grass.

                “No, I was about to do the same. James thinks we should stand here in case any little kids come by.” Ruby nodded urgently.

                “Hopefully the cops get here soon,” she said grimly.

                It couldn’t be too soon for Belle’s taste, and they stood there for long minutes while the autumn sun inched lower, and a few more leaves shook out of yellowing trees. They were quiet and stock-still, even Mary Margaret in her weeping, lest someone in the backyards facing the path put an ear or eye to the wooden fence. They certainly would be, once things came out. Belle shivered, and hugged her sweater close to herself.

                David came back at a jog, with Sheriff Graham next to him, and Belle couldn’t help but let out a deep gasp of relief.

                Graham snapped pictures for what seemed like an eternity, and another officer eventually joined him, and they put the cat in a bag and sealed it away. Then he asked them questions, for what felt like forever, and Belle thought she had said the same thing thirty times before he let them go.

                She walked between James and Ruby, and heard the Sheriff order someone to wash off the fence immediately. None of them felt especially like talking, except James, who kept grumbling under his breath and theorizing.

                “That’s black magic stuff,” he said. “That writing in blood and stuff. Belle, what’s the bit about hell mean?” Belle shot him a look.

                “Why are you asking me?” He looked nonplussed at her question.

                “You know all sorts of things,” he reasoned, and she resolved not to roll her eyes.

                “It’s from fairy stories. The fairies have to send a sacrifice to Hell every seven years.” James made a revolted face.

                “How do you know that, that’s fucked up!” Ruby made an outraged noise and smacked James lightly.

                “You just asked her, dumbass.” Belle bade them all a good-bye as soon as they reached town. Normally, on a Friday night with neither football nor volleyball to occupy them, they would have a pizza and soda and James and Jackie would smoke a little weed while David chastised his brother, but she didn’t feel like any of that, and went straight home.

                She held herself together all the way upstairs, then slumped onto her bed and wiped away a few sudden tears. The contrast of the neat brown fences and the convenient little path with blood and viscera and darkness made her shiver all over, and she went into the bathroom to take an early shower, and cry properly before dinner.

                The next morning, thankful not to have been plagued with nightmares, she dressed as usual, came downstairs, and found her father and Angela bent over the paper and talking in hushed tones. She skirted the table, eyeing the headline, and her stomach dropped to see ‘OCCULT SPECTACLE SURPRISES STORYBROOKE’ running the width of the top, with a photo of the painted fence. None of the dissected cat, thankfully.

                “Better keep this away from the girls,” her father said, solemnly. Belle scowled as she poured herself a bowl of cereal.

                “Their friends will talk about it at school,” she pointed out. “What does the article say?” Angela tsked, and tugged the paper into her own hands.

                “That the Sheriff’s office has no suspects,” she said, and huffed. “I wonder how Glass got his hands on this picture.” Belle didn’t doubt it was from James’s cell phone: he liked a sensation. He’d probably shot his mouth off to Jackie, and everyone else, as soon as he got the chance. No matter who eventually took it to Glass, he would be the originator. Ruby talked, but Belle bet that she and Mary Margaret hadn’t parted since last night, and Mary Margaret wouldn’t want anyone to bring it up.

                She didn’t volunteer this information, as she had no wish to have her morning disrupted by her unlucky coincidence from yesterday. Mara and Rose were occupied in the living room with cartoons, and she left the house ten minutes later, with her bookbag, and found herself at Mr. Gold’s shop, only to find it locked, closed sign staring back at her.

                Of course. Normally she didn’t rush out like this, and he didn’t open on Saturdays until nine-thirty. She glanced down the street. It was still before nine, and the library wouldn’t be open either. Sometimes, having her body trained to wake at seven every day was a nuisance.

                She didn’t want to be waiting outside his shop like a stalker, so she decided to take a seat outside the ice cream parlor and study there until he arrived. That was slightly less like a stalker. Mr. Bass came out to see if she wanted any ice cream, though it was only nine, and he was probably just getting ready for the day. When she said no, he gave her a free graham cracker, and she chewed on it, a little bemused by the gesture. It made her mouth dry and got crumbs all over her biology book, but there were worse fates, and she pretended to be occupied with it when she saw Mr. Gold’s car pull up out of the corner of her eye.

                She didn’t know how to react when she was simply waiting for him, but settled for inhaling some of her cracker when he walked over to her.

                “Hey,” she croaked, sure she was blushing. He looked at her unhappily, eyes flicking over her face.

                “Are you okay?”

                “Why wouldn’t I be?” He planted his cane in front of him, leaning forward slightly, and raised a single eyebrow at her.

                “Last night, perhaps?” Belle rolled her eyes.

                “I didn’t tell my own father, and you know?” she said, exasperated. He gave her the slightest of smiles.

                “Here, I’ll make tea and you can tell me about it.” She followed him to the door of his shop, book in her arms and backpack awkwardly slung over her shoulder, and paused while he flicked through the impressive number of keys on his ring. The little bell over the door rang, and she almost took the liberty of turning the sign over, but it was only nine-fifteen. He would have preparatory things to do, no doubt.

                The little shop was as dim as ever, even when Mr. Gold turned the lamp on his desk on. He limped into the back room, and paused to look at her over his shoulder.

                “I don’t keep snakes in my office, Belle,” he said dryly. She hurried to follow him inside.

                “Or dead cats, either?” she asked, and he snorted.

                “Indeed.” There was a hot plate and a sink in the corner of the office, and he filled a kettle and set it to heat. “I found out from Bae, when I got home last evening.” Belle dithered as he opened a cabinet, wondering if she should offer to help him take down the tea set he was reaching for. He usually got by so well with his cane she didn’t notice it, but not here. She settled for trying not to watch his shoulders and lick her lips while doing so. He’d taken his jacket off and laid it over the chair, and waistcoat and dark blue shirt suited him very well.

                “How did Bae know?” His explanation wasn’t much of one, she thought.

                “His friend called him, and informed him someone was doing black magic in town.” He pulled down a box of teabags, with assorted types. Belle looked doubtfully at them.

                “I don’t really drink tea,” she admitted. He shook his head sorrowfully, and took out a bright orange packet.

                “You’ll like this one,” he said, and tore two open, pouring them into the pot. “It’s hard to buy herbal tea not in bags,” he said. Belle sat down in an extra chair, amused and slightly impressed by his fussiness over the tea.

                “I hope it didn’t come across too garbled,” she said, and Gold shook his head, taking the steaming kettle and setting it down on a stack of papers on the counter. “It was pretty revolting, so I don’t know how it could have been worse.” He nodded, eyes shadowed.

                “There’s hardly any forensics in Storybrooke,” he said. “Graham had me in this morning to look at the photographs of the writing.” Belle blinked, shocked.

                “You do forensics?” she said, hoping she didn’t sound too disbelieving. She tried to imagine Mr. Gold in a scientist’s white coat, or in the uniform of a detective, and failed badly.

                “I look at writing, sometimes. It was an acrylic brush, the kind every schoolchild has for painting with cheap poster paint. No leads there.” He poured the water from the kettle into the teapot and sat back, apparently content to keep waiting. Belle felt slightly uneasy at receiving this news, which was for the police, and told him as much. Mr. Gold only laughed, and decided the tea was ready.

                “This is nice,” she said doubtfully, picking up her cup: the liquid inside was not as orange as its wrapper, but it had a distinct citrus smell. The cup itself was thin white porcelain, with a delicate handle painted gold and green. The rim was gold as well, and green leaves were painted all around the body. The taste was not as bitter as she expected, but it was strong, and unfamiliar. The orange couldn’t have been more different from the taste of orange juice, but it wasn’t bad. Mr. Gold watched her carefully, she thought, and she was very gentle when she set her cup down.

                “You can stay as long as you like,” he said, indicating his office. “It’s nice and quiet in here if you need to work.” Belle nodded.

                “I don’t have too much to do—I guess I’m sort of just in the habit of coming to see you.” She bit her lip, heart thudding a bit. “If that’s okay with you.”

                Mr. Gold’s cup clinked down onto his saucer as he looked up and met her eyes.

                “Of course it is,” he said, and she found his gaze quite unbreakable. She’d never noticed how much light there was in his eyes before. They were a very soft brown, more honey than earth. He looked away after a few seconds of some unnamed tension, and Belle looked down gratefully to study her hands. “I’m always glad to have company.” He gathered up her empty cup and took it to the sink to rinse. “Besides, otherwise I have to listen to myself talk.”

                Belle smiled at that, giving a soft snort of amusement since he wasn’t looking at her face, and carried the teapot to the sink as well, trying to be useful.

                “Thank you,” she said. “It was pretty good.” He nodded, pleased, and she retreated to the main shop, before she burst into flame.

                It was completely ridiculous that she was overwarm and out of sorts from a single long glance between them. She glared a hole into her biology textbook before deciding that it was probably a response to her distress over yesterday: certainly not her crush escalating instead of diminishing.

                She made very little progress on her reading, caught between worrying over the crime _far more_ than she had when it had actually happened, analyzing her own feelings about Mr. Gold, and watching him walk about the shop. She always sat on a low stool in some out-of-the-way area (such as there were in the shop), which put her at the perfect level to study his ass. Usually she was unopinionated about the topic, leaving Ruby to sigh over every piece of male flesh that passed by her television screen, but really, there wasn’t any part of Mr. Gold that didn’t please the eye. Her eye, at least. Until she caught herself doing it and turned her eyes back to her book.

                By lunchtime, she was irritated at herself and distracted to the point of fantasy, so she stood up, told him good-bye, and marched by Mu Han’s house. She had had a cross country meet in the morning, but it was one now. She must be home.

                Sure enough, the other girl greeted her at the door and offered lunch. Mrs. Fa, her grandmother, was frying something in the kitchen and arguing with Mu Han’s mother. Belle gave them both a tentative hello, and let Mu Han dart in among the steam to scoop bowls of vegetables from their contested pan, and put a bowl of cold noodles in the microwave.

                “We can eat in my room,” she suggested, and Belle nodded. The room in question was at the end of the house, with the window open wide, and cool and quiet in a way different from the shop she’d been in all morning.

                “Did you hear from James?” she asked, and Mu Han waggled her head.

                “I heard from Dawn, who heard from James,” she said. “So, kind of.”

                “It was pretty freaky,” she said. Her friend sat down next to her, face concerned.

                “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked. Belle shrugged.

                “There’s nothing really to talk about,” she pointed out. They ate in relative silence, Belle still uneasy and antsy.

                “We should go for a walk, you need to burn off this energy,” Mu Han dictated. While her stomach wouldn’t like a brisk walk immediately after eating, Belle wasn’t about to back down when her friend had raced three miles that morning, so she bit her tongue.

                They walked through the neighborhood, and Belle waved to half the people in their yards raking leaves or washing their cars. Marco from the carpentry shop, who made her dad’s shelves, was throwing a ball back and forth with his red-headed little son. Tiny Anton was in his garden, his huge frame carrying sacks of peat and topsoil to replenish his raised beds. Even Jefferson, lurking at the corner of Third and Elm, gave them a dour nod and told them he could offer a discount on an eighth for Halloween. Belle shook her head, amused, and informed him that Kathy or James would be better marks.

                They ended up inside Granny’s, as everyone did, at one point or another, and Granny gave them free milkshakes with a sympathetic nod to Belle.

                “Just this once,” she warned. Mu Han nodded seriously.

                “Thank you, Granny,” she said. The milkshake was delicious, as always, but it made her remember yesterday’s failed expedition, and her appetite vanished suddenly.

                “It’s weird to think that someone in Storybrooke is that messed up,” she said, finally articulating her anxiety. “It doesn’t surprise me that someone could, it worries me that I couldn’t begin to guess who.” Mu Han nodded glumly.

                “I hope Graham catches them,” she said.

                Her milkshake mostly full, and Granny’s disapproving glare on her back, Belle felt like she was slinking out like a kicked dog, and when she gathered her things to head home, she figured her dad and Angela must know by now.

                She didn’t relish returning home to find a barrage of questions, and spent the walk home queuing up her excuses. It was getting colder every day, and the sun wasn’t offering much warmth by four-thirty, so when a recognizable black town car slowed down next to her, still a mile from her house, and the window rolled down to reveal Mr. Gold, Belle grinned.

                “I really need to get a bike,” she confessed, arranging her bag in her lap as she settled into the leather seats of his car. Really, the walk wouldn’t be so bad without her textbooks weighing her down.

                “You’re going to compress your spine either way if you don’t get a basket for the bike,” he grumbled. Belle laughed, secretly pleased that he had taken her well-being into account for a moment.

                The walk that would have taken her fifteen minutes was scarcely a three minute drive, and it passed in silence, to her irritation. He pulled into his driveway, and she hopped out, wincing to see that Angela was in the front.

                “Thank you for the ride,” she said, closing the door as quietly as possible. She saw Angela look up in the reflection on the door and closed her eyes.

                “My pleasure,” he said, just before she heard,

                “ _Belle!_ ” from their yard. She managed not to cringe, but felt like a stupid kid walking back onto their property. Angela had her hands on her knees, and seemed to be digging up bulbs against the winter.

                “Hey, Angela,” she said. “I went to Mu Han’s to study.” Which was not really a lie, or at least not one with any impact. “Did you guys have a good day?”

                “We heard, _from Mrs. Blanchard when she came by your father’s shop_ , that you were one of the kids who found that poor cat.” Belle nodded, stiffly. “Why did you not say last night?”

                “I thought Graham wouldn’t want people to talk about it,” she said, shrugging. “And I don’t really want to talk about it, either.” She walked past Angela without another word, and sat down with a huff on the couch. Mara was playing with her dolls: Captain America appeared to be officiating a wedding between Galadriel and Harry Potter, and she listened with half an ear to the involved story her little stepsister was narrating.

                Her father came in from the kitchen a few minutes later and sat down next to her. Belle didn’t want to look at him at the moment, lest she cry, so she stared ahead.

                “You can always come and talk to me if you like,” he said, after a long moment.

                “I know,” she said tightly, and didn’t move. After a while, he got up and moved back into the kitchen. Mara looked uncertainly at her and offered for her to hold Captain America for a little while. Belle laughed a sort of wet laugh, and took the action figure—which, on close inspection, had a pony sticker affixed to his shield—until dinnertime.

~

                Bae was preoccupied with the gruesome incident for days, much to Gold’s irritation. One look at the evidence had been more than enough for him. He didn’t live under any delusions that Storybrooke was full of good people, but adultery and petty crime and snobbery were one thing; tormenting an animal to terrorize people was another. Perhaps it was the work of some demented teenager.

                Mayor Mills called a town council meeting two days after the incident, and that meant he got to spend a whole Monday evening discussing the details with the powers that were in Storybrooke. Gold tried to make as little conversation as possible as they filed into the fluorescent-bulbed grey-walled meeting room. George Regan greeted him as severely as ever: it had been his sons in the group that found the cat, so he was no doubt preparing to use that to his advantage. At least Eva Blanchard’s daughter had been involved as well: Cora’s longtime rival was no fan of Regan’s either.

                Gold took his seat next to Melissa Varanidae, one of the least objectionable members of the council, who was occupied with her smartphone. The mother superior of the local convent—who, against convention, conducted all the Catholic services in Storybrooke, which had lacked a priest since he could remember—took the chance to sit down directly across from him, and Gold immediately decided that even Melissa’s gaudy purple shirt and cleavage provided a better view than her smug face. He doubted he would ever find anyone again as objectionable as the saintly nun. It was almost comforting.

                He was distracted from his numerous grudges against everyone in the room when Sheriff Graham rose, holding his hand up for quiet. He eventually got it.

                “As you all know by now, there’s been a rather gruesome crime committed. If you don’t know the details, five teenagers found a mutilated cat on the path behind and between the houses on King Street and Boxer Lane. The cat’s blood was used to write ‘we tithe to hell’ on the back of the fence of the Johnson property.” Gold watched the mother superior pretend to be horrified at this satanic turn of the evidence. “I ask that what I say next, no one relate to anyone else, especially Sidney Glass.”

                There was a murmuring outburst from everyone, assuring the sheriff that they would never betray the sanctity of the police’s actions to the newspaper, and Cora slammed her palm on the table.

                “How about we listen to Mr. Graham,” she said, voice dangerously quiet. She was not pleased with whatever his news would be, then.

                “Thank you, madam mayor,” Graham said quickly. “The truth is, we have no leads and no idea who did this. Maybe it was someone passing through Storybrooke. If anyone learns anything, please come straight to me.” He tapped his papers on the table to straighten them, though he hadn’t referred to his slim file even once in his short talk. “Hopefully this was just an isolated incident. The best thing we can do is let people forget about it.”

                Gold doubted that would be the case for a long time: Bae and Morgan were drawing up suspect lists and watching old tapes of _CSI_ on a daily basis, seemingly untroubled by their homework. High school was not doing much to challenge his son’s intellect.

                He was stopped on his way to the parking lot by Cora, much to his irritation. He’d once genuinely liked the woman, even loved her, only to discover that her collected, chilly exterior matched a frozen heart. Now, all he could find was a seething resentment over his damaged feelings and a sincere hope that her unopposed election runs would end soon. Maybe a pinch of glee that her willful daughter worked at a stable instead of attending law school as her mother had wished.

                “What?” he said. She paused, hands combing through her elegant leather purse, then came up with a key on a jump ring around one finger. He went so far as to point his whole body towards her, instead of giving her a glance over his shoulder.

                “This is a key to Graham’s evidence locker,” she said. Gold smiled thinly.

                “If this is a setup, I know how those go,” he said sharply. She flattened her mouth for a second, smudging her perfect dark lipstick.

                “Still bitter eight years later,” she sighed. “All I want is for you to go over the evidence from Regina’s juvie arrest and find something wrong with it, tell me, let me challenge it, and then I bring it up in court.” Gold barely managed not to laugh in her face. For all that she didn’t give a damn about her daughter’s freedom, choice, or well-being, Cora did want her to go to a good law school.

                “Your daughter’s nearly twenty,” he said. “I don’t think clearing her name for some petty vandalism and violence is going to make her change her mind about Harvard.” Cora gave him a flinty glare.

                “I can make her. Don’t worry about that part.” He shook his head.

                “Nothing in it for me, dearie. I guess you forgot; I don’t do things for free for you.”

                “Not anymore,” she said, and he turned, determined not to let her provoke him into something stupid. Such as smacking the key out of her hands, onto the ground. She no doubt had some triple-layered plan for all this, and he didn’t want to hear the bait. Personal grudges notwithstanding, she was duplicitous and self-serving at best.

                He drove home vexed at the wasted time, wondering if Bae had decided to make dinner or just eat bread and crackers out of the pantry. The latter, most likely. And no doubt more ice cream than Gold normally permitted.

                He was still too angry at Cora for daring to ask him favors when she knew he hated her to be irritated at Bae for eating a good third of the cookies and cream. He made himself scrambled eggs and toast, since it was past nine now, and too late for a real dinner. Belle wouldn’t ask him for a favor, wouldn’t use his fondness for her against him.

                Belle—shit. It was not a good thought to compare her to Cora. Not only because it was fruitless and unfair, but because he should not be thinking of his teenage neighbor in the same moment as his last affair. Belle was pretty and personable and good company, unlike everyone else he knew—Bae excluded, of course—but he didn’t need to start letting his carefully contained thoughts ruin their friendship. Ever since Saturday, when she’d said she was in the habit of coming to see him, and looked at him so plaintively, he’d been reminding himself that a single long look likely meant very different things, depending on one’s point of view.

                Belle was—no. He wasn’t thinking about Belle.

                He spent the evening going over rental contracts, trying to determine if some of his tenants were violating their agreements—they were, of course—and determinedly not thinking about the fact that he could make Belle laugh, and she him. It shouldn’t be a surprise: he was proud of his wit. It was just that no one else laughed at it, or was around enough to hear it.

                She had given him such a bright smile when he offered her a ride, and not hesitated even for a second. For anyone to trust him—nasty, hard-ass, chilly Mr. Gold—was a gift. She’d drunk the tea, even when she said she didn’t usually, and talked to him. She had said she hadn’t even told her parents about the cat, and she’d talked to him about it. She had come to see him not because she wanted a place to study, but because she wanted to see him. It meant nothing. She had walked to her friend’s as well: he’d heard her tell her stepmother that they had studied together.

                He closed his eyes, reminding himself that he was supposed to be worrying about his son developing crushes, not himself. It was the province of teenagers to destroy friendships by wanting more.

                Tuesday afternoon had Belle walking into his shop as usual, texting someone on her phone. She looked his way and smiled as she walked in, and he smiled back slightly. His reputation of stony bastard wasn’t suffering, and he couldn’t keep himself closed off around Belle any more than he could Bae. That was how one was supposed to be around friends.

                “Hey,” he said, and she tucked her phone into her backpack, coming to stand to the side of the counter.

                “Hey.” She put her hands on the counter and studied them, making him glance over. They had, at some point since he’d last seen her, been painted a light rose and tipped at the ends with a gradient of gold sparkles. It ought to look childish, or overdone, but it was simply pretty. She seemed preoccupied, brow slightly knit.

                “Your hands are very sparkly,” he said, with a raised eyebrow, and she blushed. “It’s nice. Not too ostentatious, but not dull.” At that, she gave him a grin.

                “Always glad to take your fashion advice, Mr. Gold,” she chirped, with only a bit of mockery. “We did them Sunday night. Ruby wanted me to do red sparkles, but it’s not Valentine’s, it’s October, and besides, the gold is prettier.” She studied her nails with narrowed eyes. “I think blue next time, though.”

                He held very still as she reached out and touched the pocket square tucked into his coat pocket.

                “We could match,” she said. He glanced down, as though he had not gotten up that morning and decided to wear blue.

                “Indeed,” he said, as she snatched her hand away and started moving towards her customary stool. He should get a chair for her: he usually didn’t like people to linger, and so didn’t have any sitting room in the shop. “Like twins.” Belle wrinkled her nose, dragging her bag next to her.

                “Or something,” she said, and didn’t say anything further as she extracted her textbooks. He didn’t have anything to say, which had never really concerned him before, until Belle had stared him in the eye and knotted a firm loop around his heart on Saturday. Instead of struggling for words that wouldn’t end in terrible slips of the tongue, he returned his attention to the dirty vase he was wiping clean.

                Three weeks after the incident of the cat, everyone seemed to have agreed to push it to the side of their minds. Cora had stopped bringing it up at council meetings, as though worried of admitting that she hadn’t fixed the problem. Graham was still irritated by it, and the little path, according to Bae, was still blocked somewhat by fading police ribbon. His son had hastened to add that everyone just ducked underneath. He and Morgan had conducted a search of the crime scene, and turned up nothing.

                Gold couldn’t quite tell if his son was treating it as a joke, a real search, or something in between, but as coping mechanisms went, it wasn’t the worst. A little macabre, but at least something that led to a constructive hobby of cobbling together chemical reactions in the backyard and explaining how they would work in a real forensics lab. Gold was under no delusions that his own, old-fashioned expertise in writing was in any way as exciting as things that changed color or fizzed. He decided that he would buy Bae a set of safety glasses and demand he wear them, and ask permission before he started taking chemicals out of the garage.

                The leaves went from yellow to orange and red, and the blue skies of late September turned to drizzling rain and perpetual overcast. Even the fertilized lawns of Storybrooke’s neat residential streets were fading: slower than their natural neighbors, but fading nonetheless. It made things look neatly patched, like a brown quilt with dollhouses placed on it. Angela planted chrysanthemums, and had a pumpkin sitting on their doorstep. Belle had come over one evening with a little string of dried, colored, corn, and he’d let her tie it to a post of his porch.

                “It’s festive,” she said.

                “I think you just have a slight compulsion to decorate with plants, whatever you think,” he countered, and she just handed him a hard squash from their garden and smiled.

                Storybrooke was more or less returned to normal as Halloween approached. Ugly scarecrows and fake tombstones decorated lawns, and paper ghosts and gauzy false spiderwebs crowded the smaller trees. This year, he fancied he noticed a distinct lack of cat-themed décor, but that might have been speculation. He had a bag of cheap candy, and an ugly plastic bowl to set out on a chair for the night. Generally, parents didn’t like to walk to his door, and the teenager who dared egg his house would regret it.

                There was a big football game happening the afternoon of the holiday, and Belle showed up at his shop in costume, rendering him speechless for a moment. She had, of all things, elected to dress up as a French revolutionary, in the style of the first one, and waltzed in, incongruously singing from _Les Miserables._

                “Look dooown, look dooown, don’t look him in the eye,” her voice was falsely deep, and cracked as she headed into “you’re here until you die.” Gold snorted, and she curtsied, holding the skirts of her tri-colored dress out. The dress was done like a poorly-made costume for _A Tale of Two Cities_ , and far too loose at the neck for someone as slender as Belle. He averted his eyes as fast as possible, trying to avoid being the creepy man at least in name, if not in actual fact. No doubt Belle’s body was as beautiful as the rest of her.

                “No bread here,” he said. She raised an eyebrow.

                “I’m here to steal your treasures, of course.” He wasn’t remembering this bit, and she shook her head. “You’re the priest.” He snorted, and walked out from behind the counter to return his paperwork to the file cabinet.

                “I would make a very poor priest,” he said. “For many reasons.” Belle giggled, adjusting her backpack.

                “You have a son, for one thing,” she said, and he froze, turning to look at her. She was wide-eyed and still, and her gaze drifted all around the shop as her face turned pink, then red. “Ah, I mean,” she fumbled, “not that—anyway, I thought it would be good, since my name is French.”

                “Very good,” he acknowledged.

                “Everyone dresses up for the game, you know, since it’s Halloween.” Gold usually would have mustered up some disdain for the practice of football in America, but he was still remembering how to make complete sentences. He couldn’t even remember if Bae was going to the match. “Anyway, I just wanted to show you, I need to go.” She turned on her heel, adjusting the red scarf around her head. “Principal Snyder won't allow me to carry a pitchfork on campus, I had to return it home, and I’m running late.”

                The belle over the door clanged more robustly than usual as she rushed out. Gold glared at his hands for a moment, then went into the back to make some tea. It was ridiculous that he, a grown man, had frozen up at an indirect mention of sex by a teenager. Teenagers talked about little else. Belle’s embarrassment only highlighted how something she must surely joke about with her friends was off limits with him. He was not so much her friend as he wished, then: no one special. Not when discomfort crept in so easily.

                It was likely his fault, as well: he had frozen up, startled. He didn’t even want Belle that way: he had carefully forbidden himself from ever even thinking of it, crush or not. She was a teenager. And he, apparently, was just such a ridiculously repressed old man who shied away from the subject even in light terms.

                In fact, he was a complete idiot, and feeling more and more stupid with every passing moment.

                He quashed his anger, called Bae to say that he would be home late and not to get in trouble, and went about securing his shop against vandals. There were bars he rarely bothered to pull down, because crime rates in Storybrooke were absurdly low, but tonight, he lowered them. By the time he was walking home, it was almost fully dark, and there were young children crowding the sidewalks, parents with flashlights a little behind.

                With his long coat and cane in contrast to the other adults’ jeans and parkas, he felt something of a Halloween monster himself. Enough people certainly jumped out of his way to make him feel like a vampire, or a dark wizard.

                The house was dark and quiet when he stepped inside. Bae must still be at the game, and then he would be out acquiring candy. Gold had made it clear he needed to be home by eleven, and his son was too level-headed to end up in anyone’s party.

                By nine, he was tired of his book on the evolution of Japanese painting, and elected to take a walk. The trick-or-treaters were still out, especially the older ones, but anyone Bae’s age and older would be out mostly for fun, less for candy. Half the porches he saw were dark, households out of candy or patience. Belle’s house still had a light on, but no one sat outside: likely, it was on to guide Belle when she got home.

                The night was turning damp: by midnight, it would be raining. A glance up at the sky showed clouds blown along by a fast wind, skidding over the half-moon and lending a ghostly grey tint to the night. There was only a damp, slight breeze over the street, tossing up leaves. Gold avoided the center of town: there would be people crowding the diner, and parties with far too many pumpkin-shaped things, and people trying to grill despite the weather. He could swear he could hear sirens as well. Best to stick to the lonely areas, and clear his mind.

                He didn’t see anyone by the time he was walking near the woods at the edge of town, and he focused on the sound of leaves under the light mist that started to fall, punctuated by occasional loud calls of frogs or night birds. A startled fox even leapt out from a bush as he walked by, and darted boldly across the road, into a hedge behind a few houses. Gold smiled: Bae would be jealous. He was always listening to Morgan talking about seeing deer and foxes behind her house, but they lived too centrally for that.

                It was ten-thirty, and his knee was twinging, so he decided to declare his walk of distraction complete, and start homewards. He made it three steps before he was arrested by an unpleasant noise: like a cat crying out. Normally, he would be indifferent, because cats made noises in the night, but the events of three weeks ago came rushing back to him, and he hefted his cane, approaching the sound slowly. It was coming from a stand of trees, off the sidewalk, and he felt a slight sweat break out.

                It was nothing: it must be. Even so, he wished he was a stronger man, just in case he was about to run into a psychopath. With a knife.

                The noise came again, and closer, he heard a slight, high sound follow it, like a whimper. Gritting his teeth, he took a few steps closer, one hand shining his phone forward, the other holding his cane like a baton. It wasn’t like he had never fought anyone with it before: it was a very sturdy piece of wood.

                The whimpering sound became constant with a few more steps into the trees, and he looked down to see a few broken branches and scuffed leaves. Gold felt something cold creep up into his chest, and realized it, a second later, as fear. Not a general fear, that haunted daily, but a specific, physical, sudden fear.

                Well, he wasn’t defenseless. He took a few more strides into the center of the trees, to where there was a small patch cleared of brush. Sometimes people had little fires to roast marshmallows here.

                Now, though, in the center of the miniature clearing, over the ashes of the last fire that had been made, was a small, pale figure, in a costume made of a sheet, tied tightly at the wrists and ankles, and blindfolded and gagged.

                Gold’s cane found the ground again, as he tried to steady himself, and he found himself rushing forward, hands shaking, and the child tried to curl away from him, as a cat streaked past.

                “Shhh,” he soothed, ordering his shaking hands to still, and undo the blindfold around the boy’s eyes. “You’re safe now.” His fingers touched hot, sticky liquid, and the boy flinched terribly, groaning. “Shit.” He fumbled for his phone, managed to get ‘911’ in, and held it to his ear.

                “You have reached 911, please state your emergency.” He didn’t recognize the voice.

                “Get me Sheriff Graham immediately,” he snarled. “There’s an emergency.”

                “Sir, you need—“

                “Put Graham on the line _NOW_!” he roared. “This is a matter of life and death.” There was, now that he was close enough to see, a seeping dark line across the boy’s side. There was an agonizing moment of clicking as the line changed, and he tugged on the blindfold, trying to at least free the boy’s eyes.

                “Who is this?” Graham sounded very preoccupied, and angry.

                “This is Gold: I’ve found a young child in the woods, injured and tied up. Just north of Grace Street.” There was a pause, and a distant sound that must be Graham giving orders.

                “At least you found him—stay on the line.”

                “I need two hands for first aid,” he snapped, and ended the call. The blindfold was still tight, and the boy was thrashing around weakly. Gold put his phone between his teeth and tried to direct its light onto the boy, pinning him down at the shoulders and touching the dark stain at his side. Blood, as he had thought. And for a kid who must be at least eight, he was moving slowly, and weakly.

                Of all the nights to not slip a folding knife into his pocket. He pulled at the sheet, and grimaced. He couldn’t see well, but there was a long, straight tear in the cloth, turned dark with blood. At least the tear had been started. He ripped the sheet upwards, then across, dropping the phone for a moment to start the new tear, against the bias, with his teeth.

                Adrenaline made it easy to finish tearing the sheet, and he barely felt a twinge as he bore down on his bad knee to press it over the cut. It was bleeding quickly, but not bubbling, and was shallow. He tugged up the thin striped shirt on the kid to press the makeshift bandage down, and hurriedly took off his tie to fix it in place.

                That done, and with the kid trembling, but not fighting, Gold returned to prying at the bandage.

                “It’s okay,” he soothed. “The police are coming.” He needed a _fucking_ knife, would be willing to trade a great deal for something sharp, and his fingers were too slippery with blood to work on tight knots overlaid with glue or tape or something sticky. He switched to the gag, found it made of a scrap of fabric, and frayed at the edges. Heart pounding in relief, he pulled a few strands, then a few more, then finally had enough of a grip to tear the cloth apart.

                The boy gasped as Gold guided the fabric out of his mouth, and tried to speak.

                “Your mouth is dry,” he said, trying to sound calm. “Don’t try and talk.” The boy shuddered, and Gold wished he could draw him into a sitting position and offer an embrace.

                “Where’s my papa?” he wavered, hoarsely, and Gold stroked his hair, trying to make his fingers unravel the blindfold.

                “Don’t worry,” Gold insisted. Where the fucking hell was Graham? His fingers were freezing, and the mist was threatening to become rain.

                The sound of sirens came a few moments after that thought.

                “Here!” he shouted. “Hey, over here!” Not that they could hear him over their own damn noise. He considered trying to pick the boy up, but he was badly hurt, and Gold knew he would crumple the moment he tried to stand. Fuck.

                He continued yelling, until Graham crashed into the stand of trees, flashlight in hand, and stopped dead at the sight of them.

                “Thank God,” he said, and spoke into his radio. “Same kid. Ambulance a few minutes behind us.”

                “Knife?” Gold asked sharply, gesturing to the ropes and blindfold, and Graham pulled out a multitool from his coat, kneeling next to them.

                “Hey August, you’re gonna be fine,” he crooned. “Hold your head still, so I can cut this, okay?” The little scissors of the tool weren’t the best, Gold would bet, but Graham trimmed patiently at the cloth until it fell away from the boy’s eyes. The knot was still stuck in his hair, and blue-green eyes blinked at the light. Gold held his hand up, trying to make shade, and Graham went to work on the ropes at hands and feet.

                “Looks for cuts,” Gold said, and took the light so Graham could have both hands free. August winced and cried out as the ropes at his wrists parted, and Gold frowned at how blue his hands were.

                More lights joined them, and then the wailing of the ambulance, and the paramedics with a stretcher were picking him up and carrying him away, covering him with blankets. Gold sagged back on the ground, not completely certain of what to do, plucked his pocket square from his coat, and wiped off his hands and his phone, so they were sticky with instead of coated in blood. Graham looked hunted, across from him, and furious.

                “Well,” he said, and indicated the ground, now illuminated. It wasn’t quite painted in blood, but around the center of the clearing, the firepit where August had been tied, was spray painted in red, a pentacle with one point longer than the rest. Gold, who had books on folklore crammed into every spare space, wanted to bury his head in his hands. Apparently their psychopath had only taken a rest. “I think we should both move, so they can take photographs. And you can tell me what happened on the way to the station.” Gold glanced down at his phone.

                “Let me call Bae on the way, let him know I’ll be much later than anticipated,” he said, and allowed Graham to help him to his feet.


End file.
